


Stars in my heart, Monsters in my soul

by TheShippingMaster



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Pregnant AU, Sibling Love, an attempt to write in-universe but non-canon, i hope its angsty, it started one way, now its a bit longer, now its something very different, started out as a one shot, there is some Jon X Sansa subtext, very non-canon with the universe, writing this fic has made me ship them sorta
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-15 06:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9223925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShippingMaster/pseuds/TheShippingMaster
Summary: What if Sansa Stark really had been pregnant at the end of season 6?[Season 7 & 8 are not considered in this fic]





	1. Our Damage

**Author's Note:**

> i hope i do this au justice. i've always searched for this kind of au, hoping that other people thought of this too. Unfortunately, i never found one so i decided to make one myself!

_You can't kill me; I'm part of you now._

How he knew, Sansa could not have known. When she had stood facing him, safely secured behind the bars that jailed him and freed her, a chill ran down her arms as he uttered those words. There was a high chance he was lying but knowing Ramsay, the mind game was more fun when it was the truth.

There had been a beat where she processed his words and quickly came up with her own she knew would strike him where he hurt. He was a bastard, and what bastards like him feared most was disappearing. As she struck him, she couldn't help but see a war in his eyes. One one hand, her words affected him; he was not afraid of his imminent death, yet his breath hitched for just a breadth of a second when she spoke. However, she could see he knew she was lying.

_Your words will disappear_

Sansa relished for the day she could no longer hear his voice in her head. In that cell, tied up to the chair, the way he breathily said her name with so much malice made her skin crawl. Once he dies, he can no longer hurt you. _Once he dies, his hold on you will be gone._

_Your name will disappear_

His lineage had life within her, reminding her every day of the horror of her wedding night. But that lineage had a slim to none chance of actually thriving once she expelled this baby out of her. Oh how badly she wished to stab herself in the stomach, to rid herself of this child and to never let it see the light.

_You house will disappear._

Fear was present his eyes now. No matter what atrocities he had done to his family, his name was what truly mattered to him. To be a Snow was to be a shameful and dishonourable being in Ramsey's eyes. To be a Bolton was to be respected; to have a house was to be respected.

_All memory of you will disappear._

He smiled. It was unnerving, like he was reading her mind. Like he was trying to say what they both knew: her memory of him wouldn't ever disappear. No matter what will happen, one certainty was that Ramsey was sewn into the tapestry of Sansa's life, woven into the very clothes she wore, a burden Sansa was to carry for the rest of her life as she would be forever affected by him. Her firstborn child would be of his blood. And so he smiled, ready for death. Ready for his memory to not quite disappear just yet.

Relief and adrenaline numbed Sansa's senses as she heard Ramsay's screams as he was ripped apart by the very dogs he starved. Outside the barn, she felt the bump of her belly. Jon would be furious he didn't kill him with his bare hands if he found out.

The chilling wind rattled the Stark banners, a wonderful reminder of their achievements today. Everything became acutely sharpened; the wet snow soaking Sansa's feet through the seams of her shoes; the sharp smell of horse meat on the fire; the orange light from beneath her closed eyelids.

Ramsay Bolton was dead.

* * *

Three months later, so much changed.

Her pregnancy could no longer be kept a secret. Jon was silently furious when he found out, needing a day too cool off before returning to his senses. He enveloped Sansa is a hug and squeezed her as carefully possible. Maids created new dresses for her to wear whilst pregnant, claiming that from the way she was carrying that it was a boy.

_There can't be another male Bolton, Jon._

_I know._

It was a freezing winter, and she had had enough even though it had just started. Although she wasn't supposed to be out in the cold often, Sansa found herself sitting by the trees she grew up under in Godswood. She found herself praying more- anything to get rid of this tiresome pregnancy. The red tears of the trees remained persistent. She found herself wondering about her mother and brother. Her father, she knew very well how he died, Joffery made she saw his spiked head. And Rickon . . .

Gods, Rickon looked so grown up. Last she saw him, he was a small thing, so young and energetic and full of life. By the time Sansa arrived at the bloody field, they could barely find his body beneath the mountain of dead. When they pulled him out, Sansa couldn't tell if time existed. She stared at his lifeless self, eyes wide with fear and mouth frozen open. He was so tall already, with his cheekbones prominent in his aghast face.

Her mind wandered.

Her mother was so kinda and gentle; Sansa felt the ghost of her hand caressing her cheek. She was such a role model for Sansa, with red hair akin to hers. Her eldest brother was a leader that the North needed after her father's death, but he too was ripped out of his prime. Her mother, Robb and his wife, her sister-in-law, stabbed and throat sliced.

Yes, Sansa found herself sitting under the trees in the garden and Godswood often.

She was in the garden when a maid found her and exclaimed her sister returned home.

She ran, even though she was advised against it. Damn this large house. The maid followed close behind, encouraging her to slow down.

_It may hurt the baby!_

No, she will not slow down.

This was her sister she lost six years ago. This was her obnoxious, wild spirited, annoying younger sister. This was her sister whom she thought had died.

When she got to the courtyard, her belly ached and back groaned, but there she was. Arya Stark in the flesh was being carried into the air by Jon Snow, his hands under her armpits, her beautiful not-so-young face morphed into one of pure joy. From where she stood, Sansa could see Jon's eyes glistening with life of his returned family. Sansa hadn't seen that spark in his eyes since she'd returned and Rickon's demise. Jon was the one to notice Sansa first, placing Arya down while keeping his eyes on Sansa, the two rows of his teeth shining brightly.

Then Arya turned around. Then Arya ran.

Nobody warned her about the pregnancy, and so she slammed herself into Sansa. A second later, she backed away with wide, curious eyes.

"You're pregnant?"

Sansa huffed and rolled her eyes. No _Hello, Sansa!_ No, _I've missed you so much Sansa_. Only a _You're pregnant?_ She pulled her cloak closer around her bump, self-conscious with so many eyes watching her.

"I just rammed myself against your stomach, Sansa, and you aren't worried that I hurt your baby?" This was definitely Sansa's sister, in all her rude glory. If those six years apart had changed her, Sansa could not tell in this instance.

In a low voice, Jon joined their side and murmured how Arya had a lot to catch up with.

* * *

In another three months, Sansa was nearing her last term. It was getting harder and harder to move around, with movement limited to the courtyard and her room. How she yearned to be in the gardens, but Jon advised that exhausting herself wouldn't be worth it.

 _Soon,_ said the midwife, _this baby will be coming out soon._

She didn't want to admit it, but she was scared. For all nine months, Sansa had kept her resolve solid on killing the baby.

_I will not keep this child_

_I will not keep this child_

_I will not keep this child_

He would remind her of her pain, of a time in her life that was arguably worse than the three years at King's Landing. Ramsay Bolton was the devil, and there was no doubt in her mind that this unborn boy would grow up to be one too. He had the devil's blood in his veins.

Jon never spoke his mind about the matter. He only supported whatever choice she made, the steady hand by her side throughout everything. Arya, on the other hand, constantly fought with her.

"Just because he has Bolton blood doesn't mean he's a Bolton. He can be a Snow- no offense, Jon." Arya turned to him, cheek twitched with apology.

From where he sat near the door, he cracked a smile and laughed, mostly for Arya's sake. Seeing that he somewhat approved, Arya turned back to her bed-ridden sister, wringing her hands in her dress.

"C'mon Sansa, it's not just Bolton blood he's got; there's Stark blood too. He needn't ever to know who his father is."

"Arya," Sansa sighed, struggling to shift in her mattress. Almost immediately, Jon appeared by her side to lend a hand. Gratefully, she grasped it and sat upright. She continued without looking at her sister, "This child is not going to be mine. Once he comes out I don't care what happens. As long as the whitewalkers don't get him, Gods be dammed."

The one thing all three siblings in this room shared was the Stark's trademark stubbornness.

* * *

Sansa had been walking to the courtyard when it happened. She had to steady herself against the wall to truly grasp that _it_ was happening.

"Jon!" Her voice came out hoarse, her free hand carrying her stomach."Jon!"

A maid appeared around and gasped, rushing forward to help her Lady. "Somebody get Lord Snow!"

Footsteps thundered the floorboards and Jon Snow appeared just as quickly as the maid beside Sansa. His eyes shifted down to the wet floor beneath and scooped up Sansa in his arms. Jon ran for her bedroom and eased her onto the bed. Maids flooded into the room with bundles of towels and bowls of warm water, cleaning up the what clutter there was, making room on the bed for a delivery.

"Lord Snow, I think it's best if you leave the room," murmured the midwife.

Slowly nodding, Jon turned to Sansa and held her hand. By now, Arya had just entered the bedroom, rushing to the other side of Sansa.

"I want Jon to stay," Sansa pleaded, gripping her fingers with his. The midwife didn't oppose and got ready.

* * *

It took the rest of the afternoon and well into the night until everyone could relax.

Stars were swimming in her vision, everything aching in a new kind of pain that shuddered Sansa's entire being. Her head was resting against the headboard, glistened in sweat, beads rolling down her neck, pooling onto the bed sheet. Voices fell on her deaf ears, the sound of her ragged breath a constant in this bustling bedroom. Oh, how she wondered how her mother did this five times.

Vaguely, she felt Jon's hand still entangled with hers and his free hand wiping sweat from her face, whispering. Vaguely, she realised her eyes were half-lidded, and that in the direction she stared at, Arya was frowning worriedly. Vaguely, Sansa realised that she wasn't conscious anymore.

Her deep sleep was filled with flayed men, heads on spikes, and the cold feeling on her back as Ramsay was on top of her. His hands held her head still, forcing her to stare up at him and only him while he took his time with her. Pain flourished her insides, blossoming the feeling toward her chest, constricting her heart and lungs that she struggled for breath.

It took her a moment to realise that tears were in her eyes, rolling down her cheek in drenching waves.

The nightmare changed, morphing the visual from a bedroom to the great forests in the North. There was a finger of a man several steps before her, in similar physique and dark hair to Ramsay. Sansa was frozen with fear, unable to break away. The crunch of his shoes on the snow sounded as the man slowly revolved around, his eyes meeting hers. He had her nose and her father's lips, the combination starkly beautiful.

_Mother?_

She couldn't blink. The man tilted his head, as if she were a curiously foreign, little animal. His smile was Arya's, with kindness akin to Jon's. But his voice, his voice was Ramsay's.

_Mother, are you alright?_

He attempt to reach out.

And suddenly Sansa was falling, falling down a long darkness that it seemed she had always been here. She'd no recollection of ever being elsewhere but in this moment, lost and afraid and alone. _Mother?_ echoed throughout the blackness, somehow bouncing off and striking Sansa every time. Fear constricted her heart, gripping her lungs as she tried to scream out.

Oh, how she wished for _Mother?_ to stop! She would not be a mother, she would not be a mother, she would not be a mother.

_Sansa_

It wasn't the man speaking anymore. There was a level of intensity in this voice that the previous could never had held.

_Sansa, you can't get rid of me_

No. Sansa fell on her back, the wind knocked clear from her. The blackness was no longer, but rather a bright light shone down, a spotlight of sorts, on Sansa.

_I'm part of you now._

"No!"

Her eyes ripped themselves open and she thrust forward, doubling over her bed. From how her pulse pounded in her ears, Sansa hoped she was truly awake. Arya, who previously had been sleeping uncomfortably on the side of the bed, sprang up and gripped Sansa's hand, wide eyes searching for any pain.

"Sansa! Sansa are you okay?" Arya asked before yelling, "Jon!"

The floorboards thundered and Jon appeared by the doorway, sword and scabbard in one hand. Quickly placing the sword at the foot of the bed, he settled into his designated spot by Sansa's side.

"Is everything alright? You should lay back down, take your time." Jon's calm voice reasoned, easing her back onto her pillow.

"What did you do with him?"

Jon and Arya paused, glancing toward one another for just a glimpse of a second. It seemed like they were communicating on who should speak. In the end, Arya won the right.

"He's tucked away in a crib. After you passed out we weren't sure what to do; if you wanted to see him killed or not."

"Bring him to me."

"Sansa," Jon started, sighing softly as he was shut down by Sansa's tired attempt at glaring.

Arya left the room, returning minutes later with the baby bundled thickly in blankets. Her eyes sparkled as she held him, a soft smile playing her lips at the little wonder that came out of her sister.

On the other hand, Sansa's stomach churned. He was healthy. He was safe. He was alive.

"Should I . . ." Arya trailed away, shifting her eyes from the baby to Sansa to Jon. Jon nodded and motioned for Sansa to reach out.

Reluctantly, she did so, doing her best to remain hateful. This baby had hell in his veins, the stuff that created demons and monsters. The sort of concoction that led demons and monsters to flay men and starve dogs and rape women. He was brought into the world from a broken shell, created from a disastrous being that oozed slime that even scared the Gods. Her heart screamed at her that this baby would amount to no greatness, only pain as another bastard was brought into this world.

But as his chubby face peered up at her, Sansa wondered if she could do it. Could she really be capable of murdering someone innocent? Yes, because there will come a day where he won't be innocent. She felt so sure of this fact one week ago. But there was something in the way he was so fragile, so incapable of life without her that sent guilt shivering down her arms.

She could not kill him intentionally. Nor could she ask Jon or Arya to do it. A request like that would weigh heavy on their conscious, slowly digging a trench in their relationship wit her.

There was also the fact she carried this baby inside of her for nine months, wearing her down mentally and physically. To rid all that effort and kill this baby . . . She tried to think of what her mother would advise her. While her mother hadn't carried Jon, she cared for him as best as she could, raising him alongside her own children, reminded everyday that their father procreated with another woman.

Sansa wasn't sure if she could ever say her final decision out loud.

 


	2. 10 Years Later

_10 Years Later_

Winterfell was filled with Starks once again.

Jon had received a special pardon from Queen Daenerys, allowing the name and bloodline of Stark instead of Snow or Targaryen. It was news received with a loud cheer of those at House Stark, glad that their oldest brother (no, their cousin), could finally take up the family name he'd always wanted.

Within those last ten years, Bran had finally returned from beyond the Wall. He was the catalyst in the Targaryen-Greyjoy alliance victory against the Lannisters. And he also brought home much interesting news about Jon Snow's lineage. Arya could not begin to comprehend how fantastic the news was! One of her most favourite people in the world was made up of kingsblood and the blood of their Aunt Lyanna.

With the four remaining brothers and sisters Stark, everything went back to what they could consider "normal."

Well, for Sansa it was normal enough. Throughout those ten years, she remained free of mothering duties; although _free_ was a word she wouldn't use lightly. 

The blood of her tormentor lived through the very much alive, very much beating heart of Kal Snow. Ten years of age with so much life in his heart and skip in his step. He indeed bore a scary resemblance to that child Sansa dreamt all those years ago; he had her round nose, Ned’s pursed lips, Arya's cheerful wild smile, and Jon's quietness.

He had yet to reveal if he had his father's voice, but that would be observed in due time. His hair, while seemingly Stark, was very much in fact Bolton. Dark brown and curly at the long ends, little Kal appeared to be very much a child of wolves instead of demons.

As agreed in her bedroom, the day after his birth,  he would be raised as Arya's _. If she cares so much for his wellbeing, she should be the one to look after him_ , Sansa argued, thrusting Kal into Arya's arms. She refused to look at either of them, knowing that the legacy of Jon and Arya’s closeness remained, despite the six years apart, along with their ability to wordlessly communicate any feelings. Sansa would not be judged by the both of them.

Arya, whilst not inheriting any motherly instincts, did love Kal and cared for him like a mother as much as a sixteen year-old could. In the first few years, Sansa would sometimes catch Arya admiring Kal. In Arya's eyes, she could not believe that such a despicable creature, who hurt her sister in more ways Joffery could've done, had helped produce such an innocent little being. Such a small, chubby, cute little bundle of life that brought her sister so much pain, but brought Arya a small thrill.

She would use any excuse to tickle him or poke his fat legs. Sansa, on the other hand, had kept _very_ limited physical contact with Kal, only holding him when he needed to be breastfed. Then afterward would choose any excuse to not see him.

As Kal grew older, Sansa felt restless, often visiting Robin and Petyr in the Vale. Jon often offered to join her, opting Castle Black as an alternative - _trust_ and _Petyr Baelish_ were words that could not be said in the same sentence - but Sansa turned him down every time, reasoning that she needed time alone.

* * *

 

 "Does Aunt Sansa not like me?"

Arya turned to Kal, her expression carefully controlled from her time trained to be faceless.

Young ten year-old Kal stared off into the vast lands of the North, lips drooped and hand picking on his nails (a nasty habit Arya noticed he was picked up).

"What makes you ask that?" Arya started slowly, resting her hand over his. The fidgeting stopped.

Kal turned to her, "You didn't answer my question."

"I will, once you answer mine," Arya ruffled his curly hair, doing her best to grin nonchalantly.

By her side, Kal paused, lips twisting as he figured out how to string the thoughts and memories into a sentence.

Truthfully, Arya was scared to give him an answer. Should she lie and tell him _of course not!_ , or should she admit that his "aunt" did have a problem with his being. That conversation would lead down a path of painful questions and arguments that wouldn't benefit anyone. Sansa told her that under no circumstance should Kal ever know his true parental lineage, that Arya should come up with an easy lie.

 _You spent so much time learning not to be anyone. Surely you can just pretend to be someone_.

"It's just," Kal started, glancing up at his mother from beneath his overgrown bangs, "every time it's my nameday, she leaves for the Vale and- oh I don't know! Whenever I ask her to play she always leaves with an excuse. Uncle Jon says that's how Aunt Sansa is like, but . . ." he trailed, staring down at his hands.

Arya's heart broke. "But what?"

"I always see her laughing with Uncle Jon or Uncle Bran, and then when she sees me she stops. Did- did I do something wrong?" he choked, trembling. Tears pricked his eyes, blurring his vision as he blinked away furiously. "Did I say something bad to her o-or did I do something I wasn't supposed to?"

Without saying anything, Arya enveloped her son in a hug, resting her chin on his head to hide the tears in her eyes. He smelled of the barns, of hay and mud, his hair unruly and messy, tickling her nose uncomfortably. Kal was someone whom Arya never thought she would ever treasure, despite his origin story. Her hand was pressed against his cheek, holding him close to her body, as if he were a baby again. They were wet beneath her fingertips, her thumb brushing the tears from his eyes.

"It's complicated, Kal." Arya sniffed, quickly wiping her eyes before smiling down at him. "Aunt Sansa has been through a lot- all us Starks have been through a lot to make sure we have lasting peace. It's just . . ."

Sansa's pain could not be constituted as the worst. In each way, all the Starks faced great trials that resulted with crushed spirits and broken hearts. Gods, it was unbelievable the strife the Starks had gone through to get their family back together; Bran lost the lives of two friends and nearly lost his mind, Jon fought the dead and _died_ , Arya endured blindness after trying to be nobody, and Sansa . . . Arya inhaled a shuddering breath. It was fair to say that their pain made who they were, but, unlike Sansa, Jon and Bran and Arya didn't have a living reminder of their pain.

Perhaps Sansa's pain was the worst, or, at least, was the freshest wound among wounds that had begun to heal.

Kal stayed silent, tired of the excuse his mother always gave for his Aunt, tired that for _once_ she should be on his side. He let her hold him as they sat on the rock in the cold.

* * *

 

He had waited until dusk, when it was dark enough to know for sure that Aunt Sansa was out in the garden. The lone lantern in the fading light encouraged him to go through with his confrontation. Just like clockwork, Aunt Sansa would leave the garden once the sun had fully set, retreating to either Uncle Jon's study or her own room.

Kal waited impatiently, biting his bottom lip as he shifted from foot to foot. Any second now the sun would set, and he would have his chance.

From the house, he jumped as the lantern moved, faintly illuminating his aunt's fiery red hair. There was a pounding heard that he realised after a moment was his pulse.

Before Aunt Sansa could step into the house, Kal stepped in front and blocked her off, wearing his best brave face. He swallowed as he saw her face harden at the sight of him.

"Why don't you like me?"

"I beg your pardon?" she scoffed, eyebrows raised. Her eyes darted around, searching for a possibility of escape, of another way to enter the threshold.

Kal stood his ground, a feat hard to reach as he barely reached her shoulders. "I know you don't like me, and mother won't tell me why. I need to know why you hate me so much!"

Aunt Sansa stayed quiet, her clear, bright blue eyes piercing him with far more strength than any wooden sword. There were some aspects to Aunt Sansa Kal actual thought he would enjoy, if she only opened up to him. Uncle Jon told him that his aunt was a great help in the Stark House reclaiming the North as their home, that if he'd listened to her advice, then maybe his Uncle Rickon would be with them.

 _Who killed Uncle Rickon?_ Kal had asked, curious to learn the history. There was a hesitancy in his uncle that set Kal on edge, as if Uncle Jon had told him something he wasn't supposed to.

Nobody killed your Uncle Rickon. War killed your Uncle Rickon.

The way Aunt Sansa remained silent and unnerving suddenly scared Kal. He'd overstepped a boundary his mother had always set; he'd crossed the Wall and entered unknown wildling territory.

"I don't have to answer to you," Sansa breathed, pushing past him forcibly.

* * *

"Arya, you have to control the beast."

"Could you not call him that!" Arya snapped, staring at Sansa from the parchment she read. Sansa moved around and nestled herself on Arya's bed, jaw jutted to the side. "He tries hard to make you like him."

Sansa scoffed and rolled her eyes out the window, staring at the square, "Oh I know! He just barged up and started interrogating me!"

Rolling up her parchment, Arya stared at her sister incredulously. It was understandable her sister had a problem with Kal, it was more than understandable especially after her decision to not kill a baby, but exaggerating took this a bit too far. Kal couldn't interrogate, he was so shy to do so.

"Sansa-"

"He asked why I didn't like him, Arya," said Sansa, after slowly glancing back.

All at once, Arya suddenly understood the exaggeration: fear. Sansa was scared; a fear not like the one she held for Joffery and Ramsay, but a more innocent and selfish fear. She was afraid of caring for her son.

"Well, what did you tell him?" asked Arya, the bed creaking as she softly sunk beside Sansa.

Smooth, porcelain hands were enveloped by calloused ivory ones, squeezed for comfort.

"Nothing. Arya, he can't ever know. If he should learn of Ramsay and the Boltons-" Sansa closed her eyes and leaned into Arya, "-I'm afraid learning of what he's made of will awaken the blood in him that flayed men."

Arya stroked Sansa's head, resting her chin in her hair. The fiery orange was so alike their mothers, warmth radiating from the ghost, lighting a new spark within Arya. "He isn't like that, Sansa. Kal is tame; he is kind, not unlike Bran when he was young."

“I try to tell myself that, but every time I see him I just . . .” Sansa’s pause was filled with a shuddering breath, her eyes shutting tight to ward off _his_ face.

It wasn’t Ramsay’s face she thought of, but rather that monster child from her dream. Ramsay was gone, a bad nightmare, barely worth a page in the book of life that was Sansa. But this boy from her imagination could be her future, a legacy she didn’t want any part of.

And for some reason Sansa couldn’t communicate this to any of her siblings, not even Jon.

She was glad when Arya allowed the conversation to drop into silence. Sansa wondered  if Arya was always this caring and solemn as a child. If she had, Sansa had not been a very observant child to only see her sister’s wild side.

* * *

After the defeat of the whitewalkers with Queen Daenerys’s help, it became tradition for House Stark to host a festival in honour of their saviour every five years. As the season of winter was still raging on, many lit up bonfires to commemorate dragon’s breath.

It was a new holiday that those in the North greeted with open arms. It showed good faith between the new matriarch in Kingslanding and the North, strengthening their relationship.

Upon finding out that Jon Snow had the blood of her brother in his veins, Daenerys felt an odd sense of self-preservation. Her last brother sold her to the Dothraki and expected her to give everything to him, so when she met with the so-called “King of the North” she was surprised at how humble he was.

A bond was established between the two Targaryens, although Daenerys had been taken off guard at his request to hold the mantle of Stark. In this small favour, all she asked in return was that the North celebrate who really won their war- which Jon gladly accepted.

Planning was one thing Sansa liked to do each year, keeping her busy from any thoughts about Kal. She liked the feeling of being in charge, of being the forefront of something deemed important. Often enough, Sansa would wonder if her mother would approve of her choices in décor or menu.

Standing in the dining hall, Sansa pointed and ordered and showed where the tables would be arranged, what they would be eating, and how to organise the entertainment. After all the wars had been fought, this was the only way she felt like she was useful again.

A seating arrangement had to be made, for Queen Daenerys and her court, for the dothraki representatives, for the Greyjoy’s, for the alliance against the Lannisters, and finally for the Houses in the North. Sansa loved to brainstorm who would place where, who didn’t want to be near the other, and who would make the best entertainment if placed together.

It was the only time of the year she spent less time in the gardens.

* * *

“Mother, do I have to attend the banquet?” Kal whined as the housemaids fussed about his outfit. He faced the full length mirror, pleading with Arya through the reflection.

Chuckling at his distaste for functions, Arya folded her arms and walked to her son to place a hand on his hair. He was visibly uncomfortable with collared shirt and heavy furs. He almost looked like a young Rickon- if Rickon had long curly hair.

“It is for our queen, Kal. This time you may even meet her,” Arya exclaimed, placing her hands on his shoulders, squaring them back.

He frowned and stared at his boots.

The two of them made their way down to the courtyard, where they would welcome the Targeryn entourage. Arya had a deep sense of déjà vu, from a time before everything was broken up. Instead of their father Jon was in his stead, standing in his black furs tall and proud. Arya took her place on the right-hand side of Jon, where Robb would’ve stood sixteen years ago. The other side of Jon held Sansa, in their mother’s place. Bran wheeled to Arya’s side with Kal tittering into place, staring at the entrance.

The gates to Winterfell opened and the Targaryen banner flew in alongside an elegant and elaborate carriage. The first to step out was Messendei, draped in dress that obviously meant to imitate the Northern fashion, followed by Greyworm, who looked very out of place wearing furs. Tyrion stepped out, wearing the black Targaryen colours, probably the most awkward of the trio.

Daenerys stepped out last, wearing a stunning black dress and silver furs. Her white hair matched the snowy backdrop of Winterfell, yet she looked very out of place. Through a taut smile, she could not hide her distaste of the cold.

“Welcome to Winterfell, milady,” greeted Jon, stepping forth to place a kiss on her hand, “The North welcomes you with open arms.”

Despite knowing one another for nearly ten years, Arya could still feel the frigidness and stiffness the two had when regarding the other. While they were blood and tried to treat the other like kin, there was just too much differentiating their histories.

“I knew it would be cold, but if I knew it would be this cold I would’ve packed more warmth,” chuckled their queen, attempting to break the ice so-to-speak.

“This is our eldest sister, Lady Sansa,” Jon gestured to his left, placing his hand on the small of the tall girl’s back, “And this is our youngest sister, Lady Arya. Beside her is our brother Lord Bran.” Daenerys shook hands with each sibling mentioned, smiling warmly this time.

She stopped in front of Kal and bent down, staring softly at him. “Who is this young man?”

Whether Queen Daenerys noticed the hesitant hitch of breath Jon had was unbeknownst to Arya, but she quickly filled the void, “This is Kal Snow, my son.”

The small boy swelled up with pride and seemed to be taller. Any show of affection Kal received in front of strangers always filled him with strong sense of family.

This time it was Daenerys’s turn to pause in hesitancy. Her cheeks twitched as she played the same warm smile. She stood back up and clasped her hands in front of her dress, turning to Arya, “Kal? What an interesting name.”

The party proceeded to the dining hall. During the night, Arya realised that banquets were the same as when she was a child, with the same loud and joyful atmosphere that held some level of respect. Tyrion was beside Daenerys, rejecting the challenge to a drinking contest with Tormund profusely, finally agreeing when Daenerys encouraged him. Cheers erupted as wagers were made.

Sansa sat chatting with Brienne and Podrick, her face flushed from the mead as she laughed at something Podrick said. Jon had one eye on his sister and the other on the Lannister, enjoying the scene with a small grin. It was a feast where he was welcomed in afterall.

Even Sam had joined the feast, with his darling Gilly and the only other child Kal’s age, Sammy. Bran and Arya sat with them, asking questions about the citadel. Arya made sure to keep an eye on Kal and Sammy as they played near the stables.

An eruption of noise vibrated the dining hall as Tyrion bested Tormund. The midget slammed the jug down with a satisfying thud as Tormund spat out the remainder of his mead. Jon laughed and congratulated on his win, excusing himself out of the party.

With Greyworm to take care of Tyrion’s wellbeing, Daenerys made her way to Arya, politely asking if they could have a word.

“What is it you would like to know, milady?” asked Arya, facing her. She hated how her dress got caught up as she attempted to cross her legs.

The purple eyes of her queen wandered to the two boys playing by the stables, softening at, what Arya would argue as, a memory. “How is it you came to name your son? Kal is a very unusual name for Westeros.”

Arya followed her gaze and chuckled quietly, scratching her face.

“He is named after an old Stark ancestor, Karlon Stark. Kal is a nickname we use,” answered Arya. “In our history, he branched away from the Starks to what is now known as House Karstark.”

Nodding, Daenerys sat still watching the boys. She subconsciously rubbed her thumb across her stomach. Arya noted this and assumed the worst for her; that she wouldn’t be able to bear children. While she definitely didn’t count fertility as a factor of how one should live one’s life, for the ruling monarch . . . Arya assumed it was a big deal.

It surprised her nonetheless when Daenerys stood and strode over to the fighting duo. From the corner of her eye, Arya noticed Sansa watching.

As she neared them, Sammy and Kal stopped fighting and stood awkwardly together, staring at their feet.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your game,” Daenerys said, bending low, “but if you want to truly see a battle, perhaps you two would enjoy meeting my dragons.”

Their little faces lit up as they began to bombard her with questions. Arya and Daenerys chuckled at their enthusiasm.

“Sammy, perhaps you should head back to your mother,” encouraged Arya, pushing him gently. The two boys bid their farewells.

“Kal, can I tell you something?” A glint of mischief appeared in those purple eyes, her grin a bit too wide when he nodded, “in Dothraki, your name means ‘king’, or something close to it.”

“Really!” Kal exclaimed, eyes wide.

Laughing, Daenerys rubbed his arms. “Really! My husband was called Khal Drogo. So if you ever feel down, just remember that you would be considered a very important man to the Dothraki.”

The night dwindled quickly as more men turned drunkard and idiotic. The queen’s entourage managed to guide Tyrion to his chambers and the night settled.


	3. Blue as the Sky, Eyes never Lie

It was customary for visiting parties to stay at Winterfell for a minimum of a week because of the long journey. This gave Tyrion some time to revisit the fortress, not having seen the North since Bran’s fall.

Much was how he remembered it to be, except with snow- a lot of snow. How he longed to be back in King’s Landing, where the winter didn’t nip and bite as harshly as the North. The furs tailored to his height still seemed too big, too large for such a small man. Nonetheless, he was carefree in his morning stroll, smiling and waving to the patrons and the servants.

As he entered the gardens he heard the faint laughter of children. Around the wide trunks played the chubby-cheeked Sammy and the curly-haired Kal with wooden swords, donning play-armour and shields.

They didn’t notice the imp, too busy in their pretend. Despite being a year older, Sammy was not winning against the Snow and was struggling in keeping his footing. Kal managed to parry Sammy’s on-coming attack, sending the older boy to trip backwards on a root. He pointed the tip of his wooden sword on Sammy’s stomach and declared victory with a shrill yell.

“I win! I win!”

“You always win,” grumbled Sammy, standing back up and dusting the snow off his pants.

Tyrion stepped forward. “Perhaps the true winner is the one who learns from his mistakes,” he announced.

The two boys jumped in surprise. Kal flushed and hid his sword behind his back, staring at his wet shoes.

“You both do know that only further from here is Godswood, Winterfell’s holy sanctuary?” Tyrion asked, glancing at the thicket further away.

“Please don’t tell Aunt Sansa on us! We didn’t realise where we were going!” yelped Kal, his eyes wide.

While Tyrion had only seen Kal from afar, there was something very distinctly familiar in his features. At first he’d accounted it to the fact that he had Stark blood, so therefore it was natural he would feel familiar. But now he was less than two meters away from a gaze so powerful Tyrion had to pause.

_These eyes, where have I seen them before?_

He had met Lady Arya, the young girl with skills that gave Tyrion nightmares, up close and had seen her eyes. They were a sort of blue that only the shores of Casterly Rock could create, dark with a tinge of green.

As he stared into Kal’s pleading eyes, it finally struck Tyrion that he had seen these eyes replicated, from a girl he knew a lifetime ago who lived in King’s Landing. A girl who wore these scared eyes every day in order to survive and endure a life she did not want.

The same eyes that greeted him on his wedding night.

“It’ll be our little secret,” whispered Tyrion with a conspiratorial wink. He ushered for the children to return back to the confined walls of the castle.

He watched Kal’s retreating back, wondering how this boy came to be with such terribly clear blue eyes.

* * *

One thing Sansa liked about having company was the constant bustle. Winterfell was far too big and far too quite without the rest of her family, with the halls too wide and chambers too plentiful. With guests, there was at least an atmosphere of fullness.

As Sansa entered Jon’s study she was startled at the sight of Tyrion huddled with Jon. They broke apart their hushed whispers at the sight of her, neither looking in her eyes. She frowned and crossed her arms over her stomach.

“Am I interrupting?” she asked, gazing at Jon.

“No, no!” Tyrion chuckled awkwardly, “Jon and I were just having a small discussion.”

Sansa hadn’t spent that much time around Tyrion when she lived in King’s Landing, but she knew he was a terrible liar. He tried too hard to appear cheerful but didn’t raise his head to meet her. It was a fault she recognised easily.

“What were you discussing exactly?”

“Sansa”- Jon started, but was cut off by Sansa’s glare. He huffed and leaned back in his seat, eyes trained on his sister.

Sansa stood taller, sizing up and squaring her shoulders. “If this discussion pertains details about myself, I would very much like to know. So, I will ask again: what were you discussing?”

Tyrion rolled his head, as if debating with himself. Jon’s clenched jaw provided no source of opinion to help Tyrion, only a neutral façade that said you would better do as she said.

“I-” Tyrion tried, sighing heavily before finding the right words- “I was just asking Lord Stark about the mysterious beginnings of Kal Snow.”

Whether she meant to or not, Sansa’s voiced dropped into a snarl. “What of his mysterious beginnings?”

Tyrion huffed and his hands flexed. This woman that stood before him was nowhere near the girl he married all those years ago. Sansa-the-girl was a passive bystander whom Tyrion had tried to accompany with no success. Sansa-the-woman had all the grace of her mother but the fierceness that reminded Tyrion of his own late sister.

“Well, what are his beginnings? After we conquered King’s Landing and were told that the Stark family had been reunited, I was surprised to find that there was already a Snow. Imagine my surprise to learn the Snow was birthed by the youngest lady of the house,” Tyrion said slowly, glancing up at Sansa, “Moreover, it seems that nobody outside of Winterfell has any recollection of Lady Arya being courted or even sought after. The parental lineage of her son is popular gossip in taverns”

“Are you implying my sister is a whore?”

“Dear Gods, no,” Tyrion rushed, extending an arm as a means of apology.

Sansa narrowed her eyes, clasping her hands together. “Then what is your point, Ser Tyrion?”

“My point is,” inhaled Tyrion, “is that young Snow does not look like his mother.

Without skipping a beat Sansa replied. “Neither does Bran; neither does Arya.”

Tyrion coughed, side glancing at Jon with a silent plea for help. But the Lord Stark shook his head with the slightest of movements, signalling it was futile to argue with Sansa about this.

Under the weight of her gaze, Tyrion wondered what had made the Lady of Winterfell so fierce. The hardships and abuse she faced under his nephew’s orders certainly played their part, as he couldn’t imagine the amount of times she had been slapped and been forced to stare at severed heads.

After his own escape into Essos Tyrion didn’t know anything of the fate of his wife, apart from that she’d escaped.

Several years ago in King’s Landing, when Daenerys had won and was learning of the Houses, Tyrion was surprised to hear that the Boltons were wiped out. They were a powerful house, one that conquered the North. Furthermore imagine his surprise to learn of a Snow child made legitimized as the last of his House.

Whispers told of the Battle of Bastards, of House Stark’s bastard battling House Bolton’s. Tyrion heard these whispers. Whispers also said that a Stark had been married into House Bolton. Tyrion ignored these whispers; why would a fugitive wanted by King’s Landing return to the North?

Tyrion heard more whispers, of the cruelty that matched the expectations one had about a House who’s sigil was a flayed man. Ramsay Bolton was a monster incarnate, even more monstrous than his _darling_ nephew.

“He more or less knows, Sansa,” Jon said, meeting Sansa’s explosive glare cooly.

She seethed, turning away to watch the courtyard from the window. Her hands gripped at her grey dress, her braid suddenly hot on her neck.

“What have you speculated with my brother, Ser Tyrion?”

When he didn’t reply, Sansa whipped around and stomped up to the dwarf. Her clear blue eyes met his, challenging him.

“Is the boy yours, Lady Stark?”

* * *

Kal Snow was not used to harbouring this much attention. Winterfell usually ignored him and he’d grown accustomed to those from the North only ever seeing him as a bastard. But with so many visitors from the south- Kal was suddenly bombarded with those asking for advice to ward off the snow.

He could be walking with Sammy when someone from Queen Daenerys’s entourage would approach him and chat. Being only ten years old, Kal didn’t know how to get away from this unwanted attention. His mother only told him to not be rude.

To escape, Kal loved wandering the halls of his home, often hiding in his mother’s quarters for fun. Arya never kept Needle in the armoury, preferring to have it on her person or in her bedroom, which gave Kal a chance to admire it in secret. While he practised with wooden swords he was always waiting for the time of day for when he would play with Needle.

So in this late afternoon, with the light dimming in the early sun, Kal snuck into his mother’s bedroom and unsheathed Needle. He thrust the weapon in the air, hollering an attack. He charged at the bed post, slicing the air at imaginary opponents, striking the bed post with all his might.

Needle lodged itself in the wood. Kal struggled to pull the sword free, his sword hand pulling and his free hand pushing against the post. When Needle didn’t budge, Kal placed both hands on the hilt, whining softly as he pushed against the bed.

“Kal, what’s this?” a deep voice called from the doorway.

Uncle Jon stood, big as ever with his layers of fur, an amused grin spreading across his features. As he let go of the sword, Kal hung his head in shame.

“I’m sorry. I was playing with mother’s sword and it got stuck.”

Jon entered Arya’s bedroom and chuckled. Without any resistance, he pulled the sword out of the post. He inspected the wood, impressed at how deep Kal managed to cut. He turned to the boy, observing how he hadn’t raised his head at all. Jon bent down and offered Needle to Kal, who glanced up in surprise. Jon laughed and ruffled Kal’s curly hair.

“You know, I gave this sword to your mother when she was about your age,” Jon spoke, fondly smiling as the memory returned to him. They were such different, inexperienced people back then. “She loved it.”

“Please don’t tell mother I was here,” Kal whispered, “She doesn’t like it when I use Needle without her permission. And I don’t want to humiliate her any further with the guests.”

“Why do you think you humiliate her?”

Kal kicked his feet against the floorboards and shrugged.

As he stared at his nephew, Jon saw something very familiar in Kal, something he used to see in himself. It was what he used to call the “Snow Curse”. Before him was a boy, piled beneath rubble and layer of shame. All of a sudden, Jon saw himself, not Kal.

The situation of it all was all too familiar to Jon; a fiery-headed women loathing a small curly-haired boy with such passion, his only identity being Snow, living in the Winterfell castle with the protection of a Stark. Not to mention that they weren’t born as bastards.

Jon used a finger to tilt Kal’s face, making sure their eyes met. He studied the clear blue, seeing so much of Sansa in them. Now he knew what Tyrion meant. But behind that veil of beauty was a colour much more sinister, a colour Kal’s father once bore. Jon had only seen Ramsay’s eyes up close once, for a split second before tackling him down. He had to search hard to find the eyes of that monster. When he did, the clear blues were so caught up in each other that it was impossible to tell who’s eyes Kal really had.

Deep in those eyes, Jon saw something he was sure both biological parents had at one point in their lives: innocence. Kal’s eyes were akin to those of doe, large and of pure emotion.

“Kal, you would never be able to shame your mother. Arya has never had any sense of humiliation in her life,” Jon assured. He brought up Needle, offering the sword to the boy again.

Kal stepped away and shook his head. “I think we should put it back.”

As he stood up, Jon winked at the young boy. “Good idea, lad.” They both walked back to the scabbard, Kal holding it out. Careful to not pinch Kal, Jon slid Needle back into her resting spot. Using both of his hands, Kal leaned the sword against the wall.

The insides of Kal’s body were jumbling up, fluttering with excitement that his Uncle Jon was actually with him. Even at this young age, Kal understood that his uncle had the responsibility to keep the North at peace, especially after Queen Daenerys took back her throne. Mother wouldn’t tell Kal why, only that there was unrest in the North. So he never really spent time with his uncle.

Uncle Jon a legend in his eyes, more so than the white-haired lady sleeping in their chambers. He wouldn’t stop staring at Jon’s chest, hoping for the sudden gift of seeing through clothes. He wanted to see the wounds that never healed, the wounds that killed his uncle.

But he was pushed forward by Jon’s arm before he could ask anything. Kal trudged out into the cold hallway, turning around to watch Uncle Jon close Arya’s door.

It was sight to see, large Jon Stark, with his dark coat and furs, and skinny Kal Snow, with his own grey furs. Two men of Winterfell.

A maid appeared from around the corner and placed a hand to her chest. “There you are, Kal! Lord Stark,” she breathed as she bowed. “Kal, your mother has called for you in the dining hall.”

Feeling his mood beginning to sour, Kal muttered an _okay_ went under the arm of the maid. Just before they turned the corner, Kal looked over his shoulder at his uncle, hoping to retain the high feeling. But he was caught by surprise at the troubled frown Jon wore.

* * *

In the fading light of the dining hall, Daenerys sat in the grandest chair the North owned. She waited as servants lit the candles, grateful to have Tyrion by her side so she didn’t face Lady Sansa’s and Arya’s bitter conversation.

“I don’t understand why this needs to happen, Sansa.”

“Because you won’t let me send him to the Night’s Watch.”

“He’s a just boy!”

“Jon was a boy when he left!”

“But Jon wanted to go to the Wall. Kal just wants to stay here.”

“Arya, he is never going to grow up under your constant coddling.”

“I do not _coddle_ him! Bran, what do you think about this?” Arya commanded as her brother wheeled into the hall. “You were Kal’s age when you left Winterfell.”

Sighing heavily, Bran scratched his cheek, giving an apologetic glance at their queen. Daenerys accepted it with a slight nod.

“Arya, you are a little too protective of him,” Bran pointed out.

“Of course I am! He is _my_ child.” Arya glared knowingly at Sansa.

Sansa harrumphed, throwing her arms in the air with frustration. She understood the intention behind that sting, understood how it was a quick reminder of what Sansa had to endure and the ultimate decision she made.

She faced Daenerys and curtsied. “I’m sorry for my sister and I’s behaviour. As you could tell, she does not agree with the solution your Hand made to our little problem.”

Arya stepped up and glared at her older sister. “That’s only because you made sure this plan was approved without telling me. Not that that is your fault, your majesty.”

Tired of the bickering, Daenerys waved away their apologies and offered a tired smile. Behind the two Starks entered the young Snow, the man they were waiting for. Daenerys raised her chin and smiled.

“Ah, King Snow.” Daenerys winked. It was not proper etiquette, but the little inside joke was worth it to Daenerys if it meant hearing a child laugh.

“Hello, your majesty,” Kal greeted, hiding his smile as he bowed.

The last figure entered the room, his large furs rustling against the stone floor. The two cousins exchanged taut smiles. Daenerys waited until Lord Stark stood beside his family.

Now alone on the dining floor, Kal nervously tapped his side, wanting badly to look at his mother. It was rather intimidating to be in front of the queen of Westeros, all alone with no idea as to why he was there.

“Kal Snow,” Daenerys started, “do you know why you were summoned?”

Shaking his head, Kal maintained his resolve of staring at the carvings on the chair.

“Well, I am here to tell you that you will be joining me to King’s Landing. You will train and join my guard when you are ready.” The look of utter despair nearly broke Dany’s heart.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Daenerys followed the boy’s line of direction, not very surprised that it was Sansa. But there was something in Kal’s voice, something desperate and painful, that reminded her of the time when Viserys told her she would marry Drogo. Tears were in Kal’s eyes, but he didn’t move at all.

The tallest Stark remained silent, her hateful glare parrying Kal. It was almost cruel. Daenerys wondered what happened to make the Lady of Winterfell hate this bastard so much, even when he was her nephew. Back when she was learning the geography of Westeros, Tyrion told her that the North was the most conservative out of all the regions. Maybe Lady Sansa hated the idea of having bastard live as a Stark?

She was grateful when Tyrion stepped forth.

“My young boy, you did nothing wrong,” Tyrion murmured, his voice dropping so the other’s couldn’t hear. “In fact this is happening because of your own skills. You fight well for someone so young. I thought you would appreciate the opportunity.”

Kal’s tears continued to stream down his face, mixing with his snot. It was a truly gross sight. But he did his best to look dignified, wiping his nose on his sleeve and squaring his shoulders.

“Thank you, my queen,” Kal spewed out, remember what Arya taught him when thanking this guest. “I am very honoured.”

Daenerys clasped her hands and got up. “Great, now that this is settled, let us have a feast! Shall we.” She faced Lady Sansa, who bowed and lead the way to the kitchens.

As she left, Daenerys let out a breath and rubbed the spot between her eyebrows, massaging the tension that was building up.

When they left the warm confinements of the dining hall, Sansa paused in front of the kitchens and held Dany’s forearm.

“Thank you for doing this.”

Daenerys clasped Sansa’s fingers and gave it a slight squeeze, hoping it conveyed whatever warmth she knew she had.

“It was no problem. I only hope that he won’t cause trouble for me,” she joked. She almost didn’t catch Sansa’s reply as she entered the kitchens.

“He won’t for me, anymore.”


End file.
